I have a story. My name that was woven so carefully through my yesterdays hangs precariously alongside my heart, swinging smoothly with every grandfather clock beat of my life and my words.
Each evening my eyelids fail like sunsets, drooping to cast hazy, distant, orange hughes on yellow houses in sands as white as the calling starlight. And as I slumber in reminisce of the day I hold behind me, my captive, my ransom. I fail to catch myself when dreams I beheld of innocence and truth fall to meet the strife I have gained. Memories of the ones I held dearly, laced between and stitched within my thoughts, become to look like patterns of longing and birds with broken wings.
They read my story. They looked on, even when I announced its' unimportance, they prayed and they laughed and they wrapped up their opinions like children in my life, my decisions, my mistakes. But if it's my story, save your regret for rainier days of your own. Your monotonous tears for people in cloudy days.
I have a story. The pages of which I have yet to revise, to edit, to rewind, erase, regret. Your sympathy is no good to me. For tell me when has one used sorrow as a pen? Regret as paper? None.
As for me, my pages are written on hope, on longing, on passion, strength, courage, life and tears. On justice and war, and peace and strife and all the in-betweens. Yes, save your sympathy, for it has no place in my story.